


Artos

by inthebackoftheimpala (Wishme)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker, Cooking, Dean POV, Gen, Introspection, kitchen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:21:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1261171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishme/pseuds/inthebackoftheimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes to the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artos

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted here: http://inthebackoftheimpala.tumblr.com/post/73724205509/artos

It’s sticky, caught in the webs of flesh between his fingers, grabbing onto the edges of the calluses across his palms. He pushes it down, easing it over knuckles and blunt fingertips. A dusting of flour seems to help and he’s off again, palms pressing the dough across the counter, folding it back over to lay it out again. He continues in sets of three, the press, the pull, the fold. It’s rhythmic like fieldstripping a pistol, except that he can’t do this in his sleep.  _Press, pull, fold._

It pulls away from his hands and the sides of the dented bowl and it’s enough. Cradling it in his hands, he eases it into a ball, drapes a cloth over it and lets it rest. The timer counts out to forty-five while he sips a beer in the silent kitchen. The ghosts in the library can’t see him here, peering over their tablets and books with accusing eyes. He pushes them into the empty bottle and lets it clink against the shells of the previous two. Light wavers through the small pile of green glass, obscuring the labels, rendering his understanding of them useless. They just  _are_ , waiting for him, silent, to take them out like so much trash.

A sharp ring from the timer jolts him away from thoughts of beings whose forms mimic waves of light. The dough huddles under the dishcloth, unmoved. Not doubled, like the recipe said, but cold and hard to the touch.  _Let it rest_ , the recipe had said,  _follow the plan_.  

He cups the lifeless lump of dough between his hands. It could have gone wrong at any step: the water too hot for the yeast, smothering the rise with the pressure of kneading, suffocating the yeast with too much flour, room conditions not quite right.

The end result is the same—it’s dead.

No matter the amount of preparation, no matter the safety measures put into place, no matter the experience—it’s ruined.

Sighing, he eases the lip of the garbage open, sets his burden inside, along with the eggshells from this morning, the rinds of oranges, and a carton of soured milk. He tucks it all into the back of his mind and starts again. 


End file.
